Sexual Hunger

by Melissa MacNeal

  He struggled to the edge of the bed. “Don’t reckon we’re in any shape to tangle with stevedores.”

  “My thoughts precisely.” Amelia stood with her arms crossed; exchanged a glance with Violet as the young man bent to pull on his boots. Hastily dressed and ready to keel over, he swayed out the door, cursed loudly at his cohort in Cynthia’s room, and stumbled across the hall to hail the friend who was dead asleep in Polly’s bed.

  As their boots clumped unevenly down the narrow wooden stairs that exited into the alley, Amelia emptied her corset of the captain’s commission and then pulled the entire evening’s take from her skirt pocket. Not a bad night’s wages, considering she and her doves had done so little work for most of it. Violet, Polly, and Cynthia were dressed and proceeding down the main stairway so she followed them into the empty front parlor. She smiled at their quizzical expressions as they looked for those stevedores.

  “Seems an opportune time to visit my house in Brighton. I recall rumors of conventions there this week—lay pastors and undertakers, I believe.” Amelia opened the safe hidden beneath the carved bar. She counted out the three girls’ wages and added an extra twenty pounds to each pile. Then she smiled as her daughter, Millicent, came from the back room where she kept their accounts. “If anyone inquires, dear, you have no idea where we’ve gone or when we’ll return. And if you see Phillip, Lord Darington, approaching tomorrow, lock up.”

  Millicent smiled slyly. Had she not been born as plain as paste, with a clubfoot, she could’ve done well for herself upstairs. “Yes, Mum, of course. The usual song and dance.”

  Polly grinned knowingly as she counted her pay. “We’ll be dancing indeed, what with servicing those funeral directors. They’ve got their quirks, they do!”

  “We’ll be teaching those pastors a bit about laying, too!” Violet added with a snicker. “Let’s pack, girls! Nothing like a trip to the shore to lift a girl’s spirits. And her skirts.”

  5

  “Never, never have you looked so lovely, Maria! Even more beautiful than last time I saw you—”

  “Mere hours ago,” she quipped quietly.

  “—which is nothing short of a miracle! My brother will be stunned.” Jude fluttered her voluminous ivory skirts to display their layers of beaded lace to full advantage, and then stepped back for a final assessment. At his request, she wore her veil draped back over her shoulders, to better reveal her exquisite smile, the face he could gaze at forever. He adjusted the butterfly pendant for the excuse it gave him to touch her warm skin. “Relax, now, and hold those happy thoughts. No bride has ever been captured for posterity with such poise, such grace—”

  “Better get your shots taken. Lady Darington is spinning like a crazed top.” Rubio Palladino entered the small parlor and then stopped in his tracks, visibly affected by the sight of his sister. “But then, it’s Maria’s day, is it not?”

  “So true. Mum will just have to adjust.” Grinning, Jude ducked beneath the black cape of his camera and took hold of the shutter bulb. “Steady now…tilt your chin up just a bit, love, as though you’re telling Jason who’s really in charge—perfect!” He squeezed the bulb, confident he’d captured Maria at her charming, challenging best. “And while you’re here, Rubio, perhaps you’d like to pose with your sister? We so seldom have these occasions in our lives—”

  “What a fine idea! I feel so—so obvious—standing here all alone!” Maria replied. Then she smiled wistfully at her younger brother. “You’re all I have left for family, Rubio. And although I adore Jason, I’ll treasure this likeness of us…my last moments before I take on the Darington name.”

  “And all the privilege that entails,” Jude remarked with a chuckle. He watched brother and sister position themselves. No mistaking their Italian heritage: the planes of their faces beneath well-placed cheekbones, the coquettish angle of their eyes, and their luxurious hair. Maria’s waves were swept up into a high Psyche knot beneath her veil, with two flirtatious tendrils curling on either side of her face, while her brother’s mane swelled out around his temples and brushed his shoulders in a way that defied the current trend. Together, the two of them made a timeless statement: the lovely bride and the proud brother who would escort her up the aisle to her new husband.

  Jude sighed to himself. What he wouldn’t give to trade places with Rubio…to stand in as the groom, just this once—

  But he didn’t dare. While most people couldn’t distinguish between him and his twin, such behavior would be tempting fate: his mother had been able to tell them apart since the day they were born.

  “All right, you two, we’re not at a wake!” he teased. And as the sparkle leaped into their dark eyes, as they instinctively leaned in toward each other, he snapped the shot.

  “And now me, Jude! Make my portrait, too! Please? Please?”

  Jude closed his eyes, pausing, so he wouldn’t tell Jemma what a royal pain in the arse she was. Into the parlor she flounced, her blond curls a-flutter around her flushed face. At sixteen, his sister fancied herself the belle of every ball—and she was a bud developing into an exquisite rose, if one could avoid the thorns of her tongue and her temperament. Her gown of cerise silk faille complemented her pale complexion, almost to the point where she looked like a young woman rather than the brat he knew her to be.

  “Mummy wants to see you,” she informed Maria pertly. She lifted a speculative eyebrow. “And where are the pearls I loaned you? When Mummy sees that—that vulgar piece of paste, she’ll—”

  “What will she do?” a voice demanded from the doorway. And to make the scene complete, their mother entered the parlor with a decisive swish of her taffeta gown. A stunning, one-of-a-kind gown from LeChaud Soeurs, it shimmered in ever-changing shades of periwinkle and aubergine. Although its cut was more form fitted and sophisticated than most women’s gowns, Dora’s presence made the parlor feel even smaller and more confining.

  Jude stood taller, waiting. His mother, Lady Darington, would spare no one as she spoke her mind about the butterfly pendant.

  She stepped in front of Maria, taking the jeweled piece between her fingers to study it: because she was too vain to wear spectacles, only close family knew how poor her vision had become. “Hmmmm…”

  Why was he holding his breath? It wasn’t as if his mother’s opinion would change anything—except perhaps poor Maria’s high hopes for a perfect wedding day.

  “Highly unusual,” she remarked. “We agreed upon Jemma’s pearls, however. In keeping with the bridal tradition of—”

  “Jude made it! As a wedding gift, which Jason gave me to wear today!” Maria blurted. Bless her, she stood her ground, her eyes aglow with dark fire. “And now that it’s in my bridal portrait, we can hardly remove it, can we?”

  Clever girl! Invoking Jason’s name had helped, but she’d also acknowledged his contribution to her wedding day. Jude exchanged a quick glance with Rubio, who stood poised next to Maria to prevent Jemma and his overbearing mother from injecting any more venom.

  His mother’s breath escaped with a hiss. “Far be it from me to criticize Jude’s talent or taste. But if Jason approves—”

  “Oh, he was proud to give it to me! Even Mrs. Booth remarked on its unusual beauty!” Maria pressed on. “And don’t you look lovely, too? Camille and Colette outdid themselves, flattering you with such an exquisite fit and color, Dora!”

  His mother took the bait, focusing on this flowery praise rather than her disdain for Maria’s habit of using first names. “Well, I—thank you, Maria. And for what I paid them, the LeChaud sisters should well have transformed me into a goddess!”

  “And they made my gown, too!” Jemma chimed in. She plucked her skirt between her fingertips and twirled like a little girl—until she grabbed her bodice under the gown’s short cape, which seemed to be…squirming. “Willie! Willie, stop it!” she whispered tersely.

  “You did not bring that damn ferret—”

  “He’s my best boy, Mummy. Queen Elizabeth’s fer
ret was an albino, too!”

  “—to church? To a wedding?” Dora gasped. “My God, Jemma, what were you thinking? If that infernal pest gets loose—”

  “I have him perfectly trained! Wilbert has impeccable manners!” the girl replied shrilly. She coaxed the slender white creature out through her scalloped neckline, to cradle him against her chest. “And I will have my portrait made with him! Jude has already agreed!”

  Jude stood rooted beside his camera. Pitting mother against daughter was a losing proposition, but at least the ferret had relieved poor Maria of being the target for the negative attention his pendant had created. She, too, stood absolutely still; remained outside the running tantrum that erupted between the Darington females several times each day.

  “This is not the time nor the place for such foolishness, Jemma.” Their mother squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, silently announcing that the matter was settled. “Enough distractions! I came here looking for Jason, as it seems no one has seen him today. We’ve a mere twenty minutes before the wedding is to begin!”

  The bottom dropped out of Jude’s stomach. As his brother’s best man, he was ultimately responsible for the groom…and he could not confess where he’d been during Jason’s bachelor party last night. His gaze met Maria’s. She, too, was forcing an expression that camouflaged their secret, but she couldn’t keep quiet.

  “He was fine when I saw him yesterday! When he gave me this pendant!” The words rushed from her mouth as she fingered the jeweled butterfly. “He left the town house dressed for his party, so—”

  All eyes found Jude, and he prayed for a convincing cover story. “Last I knew, he was at the gentlemen’s club near the harbor, fulfilling all those male rituals one observes at a bachelor gathering,” he added with an apologetic glance toward Maria. “I insisted he come home with me, but—as always—he and his friends ridiculed me for wanting to leave early. For acting responsibly, considering today’s wedding.”

  His mother’s face tightened. “Are you not your brother’s keeper, Jude? You should have—”

  “Jude! Jude, where the hell’s your brother?” Into the airless parlor stalked his father, whose expression said the devil had come to collect his due. “I’ve just quizzed McCaslin and Hackett—who look like Death itself dragged their arses out of bed. They have no idea of Jason’s whereabouts.” Lord Darington’s hair had gone white at the temples and his skin had assumed the patina of his advancing years, but he was still a battle cannon who fired first and asked questions later. “And here you are, looking as fresh as a daisy! As oblivious—or deceitful—as your brother’s fine-feathered friends!” he blustered. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Jude gripped his tripod, knowing three extra legs still didn’t give him a good one to stand on: in his white tie and tails, Phillip, Lord Darington, cut a formidable figure. Not a man to be trifled with, even when his wealth and standing weren’t being showcased at his heir’s wedding. “As I was telling Mum,” Jude rasped, hoping his story matched what Clive and Daniel had said, “when I informed Jason it was time to head home, he and his friends laughed at me!”

  “As well they might,” his father replied stiffly.

  Jude bit back insults he’d wanted to hurl at this pompous old goat for years. “Jason believes he can do no wrong. Who am I to imply otherwise?”

  “That’s a dodge and you know it!” Lord Darington—for he had assumed his role as guardian of the family name and reputation—drilled Jude with his steely gray gaze. “McCaslin and that nutless wonder, Hackett, claim they last saw your brother at—” He glanced at his wife and daughter, then gripped Jude’s shoulder. “No more hiding under that camera’s cape. You can only imagine the consequences if we have no groom for today’s wedding!”

  “But the ceremony must go on!” Jemma cried. “I’ve been preparing myself for weeks—”

  “I shall not abide such an insult to our reputation! Not even the suggestion of it!” his mother said. She pointed toward the door. “Go! And don’t come back without my son!”

  With a last apologetic glance at Maria, who stood like a porcelain statue, Jude followed his father. His temples pounded as though he’d imbibed as much brandy as his brother and those cohorts who’d led him on last night’s misadventures. And indeed, Clive McCaslin and Daniel Hackett appeared green around the gills outside the church doors, weaving and bleary-eyed. At the sight of Lord Darington, they tried in vain to square themselves up.

  “Now tell me again! We have no ladies present, so where did you sots leave Jason?”

  Clive swallowed as though trying not to retch. He looked to Jude for support, but Jude kept his mouth clamped shut, hoping McCaslin didn’t ask where he’d been last night. “Best I can remember, Miss Amelia—” He blinked and pointed at Dan. “You’re the man who suggested we take up a collection for—”

  “Amelia Beddow? The madam who runs a house on the harbor?”

  Jude flinched. Their father had escorted them to the madam’s establishment for their sixteenth birthday and paid the lady to make men of them—or of him, anyway. Jason had already dipped his stick when the daughters of their parents’ peers succumbed to his persuasive ways. And while her sporting girls had come and gone over the years, the enterprising Miss Beddow knew a gold mine for its worth, there amongst the sailors and ship captains and captains of London’s shipping industry. Surely she’d known better than to detain Jason on the eve of his much-publicized wedding….

  Dan’s vomit splattered the foundation, a doleful sound that brought Jude out of his musings. His father’s face resembled a raw beefsteak, and had the vicar not stepped through the door, he might’ve shoved Dan and Clive against the church’s stone facade.

  “Have we still not located the groom?” Father Stoutham tugged at his white collar, not daring to ask any further questions.

  Lord Darington cursed. “Do you think we’d all be standing here, trying to nail down the truth, if—oh, here!” He pulled a thick wad of pound notes from his pocket. “I’m leaving you to maintain order until we get back! My wife and daughter are working themselves into a frenzy, and the gossip’s going to fly among the guests. Handle it for me!”

  His father’s expression brooked no argument: Jude followed closely as they strode toward the carriage. Pearson, the driver, looked startled when he learned of their destination, but moments later they were clattering down the street and toward the harbor.

  Across from him, his father looked suddenly older, despite his rage. “Why do I suspect you ducked out of the festivities as soon as Amelia Beddow came into the picture?” he demanded in a low voice. “You could’ve waited in the front parlor—”

  “I had no idea!” Jude protested. “I left before there was any mention of visiting Miss Beddow’s!”

  And it was true. Almost. Damn his brother for messing up everyone’s day—and not telling him! In a pinch, he could’ve stood in for his more adventurous twin—and God knows he’d wanted to, plenty of times—so the wedding could’ve proceeded. They could’ve claimed he, Jude, was the missing twin! To avoid scandal, his mother would’ve gone along with the ruse, and would throttle Jason the next time she saw him.

  The look on Maria’s face as he’d left the parlor haunted him. She’d stood still and silent during the fuss his sister had kicked up, but she had to be hurt…concerned…heartsick. What awful thoughts must be racing through her mind, these minutes before her wedding? While Maria loved him dearly, she loved his brother in a deeper, different way. And what bride wanted to be crying in the parlor, worried about her man’s whereabouts, when she’d spent the past months dreaming of this moment—this biggest promise and celebration of her life?

  And we left her to fend for herself while Mum and Jemma whirl like dervishes, he thought as the masts and piers of the harbor came into view. At least Rubio was there to help Stoutham control the gathering crowd. Things were bound to get ugly—or very interesting, depending on how their guests speculated about their long wait
. And when all was said and done, Jason would have to learn to apologize, wouldn’t he? He owed all of them—his bride, most of all—a major explanation.

  As the carriage clattered through the traffic toward the modest two-story building near the pier, however, the air of desolation around the place didn’t bode well. His father peered intently out his window, as though to see through the bordello’s drawn draperies. “Why the hell, on a Saturday afternoon, does Amelia’s place of business look deserted?”

  “It’s early yet?” Jude offered, knowing it was the wrong thing to say.

  His father nearly knocked the footman backward as he threw open the carriage door and strode toward the whorehouse. Lord Darington grabbed the handle, but the place was locked tight. “Open up, damn it! I know you’re in there!” he called out. He pounded continuously on the door as Jude peeked through a front parlor curtain.

  Was that a movement, near the bar? The room looked dim and empty, yet someone stirred…shuffled unevenly toward them without making a reply.

  “Amelia, we must talk! And you know why!” his father continued in an ominous voice. Heedless of the curious passersby, the iron-haired man in formal attire banged the heavy door with his fist—

  Until the lock clicked and it flew open! His father nearly punched the young woman who stood scowling at them, jaded and unafraid. “And what might this mindless racket be about?” she demanded. “Can’t ya see the place ain’t open?”

  “Why the hell not? I must talk to Amelia about—”

  “Gone, she is. To Brighton, to work a convention. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Cheeky chit! Have you any idea to whom you’re speaking?” he demanded. “When Miss Amelia returns—”

  “Father, please! We haven’t time for such confrontations.” Jude grabbed the arm that was poised to slap the young woman, giving the girl an apologetic smile. “If Jason Darington is passed out in one of your rooms, we’d be pleased to relieve you of him, miss.”